


A Yuletide Morning in the Shire

by Saraste



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bedsharing, Braids, Domestic, Dwagginshield - Freeform, Dwarves in the Shire, Fluff, Food, Have a Happy Hobbit Holiday Gift Exchange, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, Multi, Polyamory, Rule 63, Shades of Angst, Snuggling, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraste/pseuds/Saraste
Summary: Bilbo wakes up in bed between the two dwarrow she brought home with her on her journey, Dwalin and Thorin; or a glimpse of a lazy slow Yule-day morning in the Shire.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mithrilbikini (liasangria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/gifts).



> Happy Holidays with a Hobbit & Dwarf fic! :3 I hope that you'll like it, dear. I was a bit hesitant in writing this fic, but when I got into writing it, it flowed so easily. It's a complete genderswap of all three, it just wanted to be written that way, I hope it's okay, even if it wasn't explicitly asked for. Also, fluff and dwarves in the Shire with polyamo-fluff. And braids, I cannot resist a braid (though understated braids, which you can read as you please). I wish you a merry holiday season and a wonderful new year. *hugs*
> 
> Beta-read by ---. Thank you, dear! :)

Despite it being the middle of winter, the Shire isn't quite snowbound, but a beautiful, glittering coating of frost and a light dusting of snow covers the ground and all green growing things sleeping during the cold season, which are conserving their strength to burst into bright bud and bloom come spring-time.

 

Inside each smial there is warmth enough, with roaring fires, and a stocked larder, all ready for Yule, the hobbit midwinter festival.

 

Ensconced in the biggest bedchamber of one particular smial, lovingly built by an adoring husband for his wife, now occupied by what some folks called their errant mad daughter, there is a bed filled to bursting with three warm bodies, limbs entwined, breaths calm in sleep. The bed isn't really big enough for the three of them, and plans are in place to replace it, yet they all secretly prefer having to sleep together so snug and tight. All of them have had worse than a too small bed to sleep in, two of them so for years. In truth, the smallest occupant of said bed relishes in the wonderful warmth put out by her bed-companions, she objects not a single bit to either of their company.

 

She, the master, or rather mistress, of the house herself, stirs first. 

 

That she finds herself in a warm bed, enveloped by two strong dwarrowdams on either side of her, is still a thrill, and she sometimes cannot quite believe that her life has come to this. She thoroughly enjoys the warmth of her bed-partners, the big arms slung across her torso and soft yet firm bodies against hers, Thorin, is pressed all along her side while Dwalin is tucked on the other side. Bilbo tries to think if she has enough food to keep them fed as she indulges in the warmth and the closeness of her two dwarrow. She isn't expecting any dwarrow to come call this wintertime, but the two in her bed eat their fair share, and there is always the possibility, however improbable, of relatives calling in, and friends. But her larder should be stocked enough to meet their needs. Bilbo herself is not really invited anywhere now, as her scandalous return has ruffled quite a few feathers. Because, as far as most Hobbiton and Shire busybodies are concerned, she is leading a scandalous life of having traipsed first who knows where and then coming back and living,  _ unmarried,  _ with the two big dwarves she came back with. Some of the well-meaning, less judgemental goodwives press special teas on Bilbo whenever she goes to market, thinking that she wouldn't know to get some, not knowing that she has no need for such.

 

For there are no male dwarrow in her bed, never have been.

 

'Mornin', Dwalin's gruff voice stops Bilbo's musings and she shifts to turn toward her.

 

Dwalin is sleep-rumpled, yet looking so much more well-rested than she ever looked on the road that it still makes Bilbo's heart ache.

 

'Morning, did you sleep well?' She asks, offering what is intended as a quick good-morning peck onto Dwalin's lips, but what ends up with her swept up in Dwalin's rough embrace and kissed quite thoroughly and not at all in the way good- morning-kisses ought to be, or how Bilbo always used to think that morning kisses should be done, but she's used to it by now. She gives back as good as she gets.

 

Dwalin holds Bilbo close and Thorin grumbles, half-awake, and moves closer, plastering herself across Bilbo’s back. 'I always sleep well here, well, apart from almost falling to the floor again,' Dwalin murmurs against the top of Bilbo's head.

 

Bilbo's fingers play at the bead on a braid in Dwalin's hair, smiling a secretive smile to herself. It's a well-worn complaint by now, Dwalin almost falling off. Her hand rasps against Dwalin's beard and she does not even find it strange any more to have a lover in her bed, in her heart, who is, when layers of clothes and armour are peeled away, as female as she is, despite her striking beard. Thorin presses her own against Bilbo's upper back where her night shirt has shifted down, the collar stretched so much that one of her shoulders is entirely uncovered, Thorin's big hands wind around Bilbo's waist, holding her snug. 

 

Bilbo is trapped between the two big dwarrow and could not care less. At least not until her stomach starts to growl ominously.

 

Thorin stifles a snorting laugh behind her, big hands sneaking upwards a bit, making Bilbo shiver but keep firm in her decision to listen to her stomach instead of her other urges. Her hands stop Thorin's wandering and the movement wakes up Dwalin, who has dozed off in the calm warmth of their snuggling. 'Quit it, you,' Bilbo admonishes, though her tone is not harsh, 'I need to go and make breakfast before we all starve.’

 

Dwalin's stomach takes this moment to rumble loudly, as if agreeing with Bilbo's words. Thorin sighs in defeat. 'If you must.'

 

Bilbo wriggles about to give Thorin a stare, which is tempered by the affection she cannot suppress, for Thorin looks so… good, not at all like the ragged royal in exile, whose only driving force was to provide for her people, her family, whose actions had almost brought her to ruin. The Thorin now in Bilbo's bed, _their bed_ , is well-rested, well-groomed under the sleep-mussedness, and content. Happy with her life for once, Bilbo thinks. _Knows_. She is glad that she and Dwalin got Thorin to let go of all his cares and decide to live for herself for once in her life, let others take on the mantle of ruling.

 

'You cannot tell me that you would not care for breakfast, first or second, Thorin, daughter of Thrain.'

 

Thorin gives Bilbo a smile which is not so rare these days, these lazy long days in the Shire, where this dwarf of royal blood, helped by Bilbo and Dwalin, is finally healing, learning to live for herself. Thorin gives Bilbo a kiss of her own, soft but not brief, her beard feeling familiar against Bilbo's lips, cheeks, as they indulge. It's not the raw passion which Dwalin puts into her kisses, but no less potent, that is conveyed in that kiss.

 

They come apart and Bilbo deigns to let Thorin hold her face to face in turn. It's not a hardship, really. Dwalin's hands play idly with Bilbo's hair as Bilbo's find a particular bead in Thorin's hair, twiddling with it between her fingers.

 

Finally, as Bilbo knew that it would, Thorin's stomach gives a growl of protest of it's own. Her two dwarrow might have lived a life of three meals a day, and endured much privation, but the months in the Shire have educated their digestive systems to expect the seven meals, or at least more than three, that hobbits eat daily.

 

Bilbo cannot quite hide her snicker and Thorin scowls at her. 'I'll go get dressed and make breakfast, shall I?'

 

She used to blush, what feels like a long time ago, to have two sets of eyes look at her as she dresses, changing her long nightshirt into an underdress, but there is not an inch of her body the two have not seen for themselves, nor do the two have any part of theirs left unexplored by Bilbo. She stifles such thoughts, as it is now high time for a breakfast, filling another sort of hunger. They’ll have ample time for other kinds later on.

 

Thorin and Dwalin lounge on the bed, having exchanged a morning-kiss between themselves, Thorin leaning onto Dwalin, as they observe her choosing an outfit. While Bilbo did like her trousers on the road, in the comfort of home she does opt for a nice warm dress, with enough petticoats and nice pantaloons, the layers warming her much more nicely than a pair of trousers ever could. Her pair of dwarrow have turned into such homebodies ever since the winter, burrowing into her smial with her, warming the bed and each other, engaging in reading and small-scale crafting. Dwalin, surprisingly, has quite the skill in knitting. Her sock heels always end up so nice. Bilbo tried, and though she has the skills for a nice scarf or mittens, a sock heel is quite beyond her skillset, as hobbits do not really wear socks even in winter. Thorin has occupied herself with plans for smithy-work, but has been all but hibernating as the weather has grown colder and the days shorter. Both enjoy the offerings of Bilbo’s larder and have shown her many a dwarrow recipe in the months they’ve lived together.

 

‘No, the blue one,’ Thorin directs from the bed, still yawning, as Bilbo dithers between a blue dress and a russet one, both nice and warm woolly winter-dresses, very comfortable and sensible with a long hem and wrist-length sleeves. She throws a cardigan on during really cold days, spending most of those in the sitting room with one or two dwarrow pressed against her side, beside a crackling merry fire.

 

She had known Thorin would choose the blue one, she always does.

 

Donning the dress, she shakes her hair loose a bit, running her fingers through her curling lock and opts to just tie them back. The bedsheets rustle behind her, and a dwarrow is soon standing behind her, big hands on her shoulders, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

 

‘That won’t do,’ Thorin informs her, fingers already freeing her hair and starting to braid it into a single plait, braiding the slim braid already in Bilbo’s hair, which she has agreed to let grow out, into it with deft fingers. Bilbo lets Thorin have her way, knowing just what braiding means to her, the feeling of connection, of the caring it symbolizes. No-one touches Bilbo’s hair now but Thorin and Dwalin, and they both like handling it enough, so it’s not a hardship to let it grow long, as she never has to worry about it getting in the way. 

 

‘Thank you, Thorin,’ she turns and gives Thorin a peck, the dwarf obliging her by bending down. Bilbo glances at Thorin’s wild mane, mussed in the night. ‘Let Dwalin smarten you up a bit, won’t you?’

 

When she leaves the bedroom it’s to Dwalin sitting behind Thorin at the foot of the bed, carefully untangling her mane, sharing a kiss before the braiding begins, and a press of forehead to forehead. The latter gesture is so very intimate that Bilbo almost cannot look, feeling a bit like a voyeur, even when gets her fair share of forehead touches from both.

 

In the cozy kitchen of Bag End Bilbo’s time is consumed by stoking the fire back to life and the clanging of pots and pans. The table is quickly set for three, with plates, cups and cutlery. This particular morning she’s serving a nice pot of spicy porridge, a recipe shared by Dwalin, along with some lovely strawberry jam, along with fresh rolls, which she makes from dough that’s risen through the night and is quickly rolled onto shape and to a cooking sheet and then gets into the oven. There’s also water boiling for the tea and some gingerbread shortbread for sweetmeats. 

 

Her dwarves appear soon enough, nice and neat with freshly combed and braided beards and hair, dressed in clean trousers and tunics, thanks to Dwalin having done the washing the day before. The two are not just quests in Bilbo’s home, so she does not feel like she’s asking too much if she doesn’t protest when Dwalin does the laundry or when Thorin sweeps or fetches firewood from the shed. They all cook, yet breakfast is often enough Bilbo’s domain, and when they all take part, it makes Bilbo feel utterly content, almost frighteningly perfect. 

 

This does, too, a table filled with food, and two smiling faces looking at her as she comes to take her place, settling the teapot, complete with a knitted, flower patterned tea cozy, onto the middle of the table.

 

‘So, what shall we do today?’ Dwalin asks, tugging into her porridge. 

 

Thorin is starting with tea and one of the rolls, which are steaming, hot enough to have butter melt on them and be absorbed into the soft roll. 

 

‘Whatever we want, there is no-one coming over today, that I can think of, and we have not been invited anywhere.’

 

‘Do we need more wood inside?’ Thorin asks after swallowing. Bilbo pushes the honey jar closer to her, knowing of her preference.

 

‘No, we can stay inside and eat as much as we like. Have a perfectly traditional Yule-day, apart from the fussy relatives, which I prefer to do without. You two are enough for me.’

 

Dwalin’s hand is big as it covers hers, stilling her spoon. ‘Is food everything you intend to enjoy today?’

 

‘I plan to have all sorts of enjoyment,’ Bilbo declares, giving Dwalin a look across the table, winking.

 

Thorin’s sudden delighted laughter is a joy to hear.

  
  
  



End file.
